


The Nine Stages of Reichenbach

by 75cookies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75cookies/pseuds/75cookies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death John goes though the five stages of grief and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nine Stages of Reichenbach

The 9 stages of Reichenbach

1\. Denial

John comes home numb. He sits, quite collected, on the sofa, eyes looking in, and fingers trembling- just a bit.

His mind has jammed up like a broken VCR, frozen on that grisly scene. Sherlock's blood smeared against the sidewalk. Sherlock's blood splattered on the truck. Sherlock's blood, warm, thick and coating his fingers like a glove as he searched for a pulse that no longer existed.

Was that truly Sherlock's face?

Where those really his stiff fingers?

Surely those weren't his dead eyes.

Not his frozen skin.

Mrs. Hudson is upstairs within five minutes of John's arrival.

With her hip acting up again it takes a good amount of puffing and extensive stair-aerobics to get up to their…

His.

Flat.

John doesn't notice her presents until she stands directly in front of him.

"Oh dear," she sits next to him, and suddenly John is embraced in the kind of hug that his own father had never rationed out.

He's not sure if he likes it – it makes the hallowed out space in his chest feel as if it is host a million puss-filled maggots, writhing into the ever red, puffed and swollen tissue of his flesh. But Mrs. Hudson needs the touch as much as John doesn't want it so he remains immobile.

He expects tears to come, but they don't.

It was so strange, really. At his mother's funeral, years ago, he had cried and cried and cried.

But now it was just… nothing.

Floating.

Empty.

He doesn't feel anything.

Mrs. Hudson, bless her, stays with him all through the night and into the morning.

John doesn't speak once.

2\. Anger

The calls are quick to flood in.

Harry, Molly, Mike Stanford, even.

They create gummy swamp lakes of pretty pre-packaged apologies and tender works with bows on top- offerings of beautifully wrapped nothing.

He wades through with less than the minimally required amount of syllables, each time eager to hang up and be left alone.

"I'm so sorry, John." Lestrade murmurs now, almost reverently.

John makes something that could pass for a human grunt.

"Really," he poor man was never good with emotion, but he flounders on "if there's anything I can do…"

"Actually," John speaks up for the first time in in eighteen hours, and has to clear his throat because of it. "There…there is…if you could…"

"Yes," Lestrade jumps on the request immediately, obviously relived – both that John is now talking and that he doesn't have to carry on an increasingly torturous, one-sided conversation "Anything," he repeats.

"Fuck. Off." John articulates quite loudly and clearly into the phone before hanging up.

Nobody else calls after that.

3\. Nightmares

Nightmares were already an area not unfamiliar to John. But the occasional bad dream became a nightly affair, and soon the only way John slept was unwillingly.

Behind his lids crept disembodied limbs bent at bone-snapping angles, rivers of steaming blood, and piles of heaped bodies- pale, limp, and oozing. The air was packed tight with gunfire and screaming from John's worst days.

But that was all old data- the standard package. His subconscious mind had been kind enough to upgrade to the gold edition.

He would stand on the sidewalk night after night, phone clutched uselessly to his slack-jawed mouth, watching Sherlock fall, again and again and again.

And he would scream, and scream, and scream.

And then he was the one falling endlessly into blackness.

But worst thing was the eyes. They haunted him relentlessly, escaped from his dreams and stole into his waking hours. Pale blue eyes that were misted and dead and cold and unblinking, and staring accusingly at John.

Every nightmare always ended the same way: John awake and huddled on his bed, sweating yet parched…

And very alone.

4\. Refuse Help

His blood is still boiling later in the week when he notices a shining black limo parked outside the flat. It stretches past two separate 'No Parking' signs, which John finds laughable. Almost gleefully he waits for it to get ticketed but of course that never happens. Glad Mycroft is using all that power for the important things, you know, like avoiding parking tickets.

He ignores it, out of spite. But four hours later it's still there, hanging irritatingly over John's head, and all the fun has run out of it.

So he decides 'Sod it' and goes ahead and climbs in.

Despite the fact that he is technically four hours late for their "appointment", Mycroft has piping hot tea and biscuits waiting patiently for him on his desk when John walks into a very handsome office.

He's tempted to swipe them both on the floor- after all it was Mycroft who sold Sherlock out… what right did he have to call John to him now? but he manages to restrain himself, the line supposedly being drawn at "all-out tantrum".

"John," Mycroft greets with a voice of melted butter "Please sit down. I'd ask how you're getting on, but I'm afraid that's obvious…"

As much as John would take pleasure in denying it, Mycroft is right. He hadn't cleaned, cooked, left the flat, or had human contact since…

Since it happened.

And he was fairly certain he was unemployed.

"Bloody fucking hell, Mycroft, couldn't you have insulted me over the phone?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"John, John, no," he leaned forward, fingers laced neatly, a somber yet inviting expression perched on his face: the epitome of sympathetic. "I am merely concerned about you." His pursed his lips "It hasn't escaped my attention that…well you've been slipping." He explained gently.

"Christ, Mycroft!" he snapped, looking up with a glare. His patience level was always at zero these days "It hasn't even been a month!"

"Precisely, John, yet you've stopped seeing your therapist, you've been quite rude to Lestrade- who was rather upset might I add – not to mention you've lost your job…"

So he was unemployed. Good to know.

John stood up suddenly. The chair clatters to the floor behind him.

Mycroft didn't even look flustered. He just gazed upwards, eyes full of self-righteous compassion. "I only want to help you."

John looked back down in turn. Mycroft was so calm… so fucking collected. What was wrong with him? Didn't he even care? Did he even fucking feel? Because he felt even one fifth of the black, raw, pain that tortured John day and night he'd be screaming.

Just Screaming.

God, it had been so long since he'd had a decent sleep.

"Are you going to hit me, John?" he asked softly, glancing down at John's hands.

John looked down too.

That's funny- he didn't even remember clenching his fists.

It's strangely difficult to relax them.

"Leave me alone." Is what he manages to get out as he walks brusquely from the office.

5\. Bargaining

The apartment is dark because John hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. Mrs. Hudson (bless her again) had brought up some supper for him about an hour earlier but it remained cold and untouched.

It was completely silent except for the occasional car going by under the window and the increasingly frequent hiccup from John.

He hadn't drunk this much in ages. With an alcoholic sister he generally made it a rule to be wary around liquor but at the moment he was polishing off his fifth beer. Bottles one through four lay on the table, nearly as empty as John was.

"Ffffuck" he slurred out for his own ears only.

His head weighed a million pounds and the swirling room made him dizzy with nausea, so, using his arm as a cushion, he laid his head down on the table in the hopes of lessening the pounding in his head.

The darkness was blessed. It hid the mess the flat had become, and the mess John had become but most importantly it hid Sherlock's mess – the flasks and experiments and papers that John couldn't bear to look at let alone touch.

"Fuck," his drunken profanity broke the silence again "Goddammit."

His eyes burned like acid. Hot like raw pain the tears bubbled from his eyes, jumped onto the table.

It was the first time he'd cried since it happened.

It felt so good.

And it hurt so much.

How was in possible for one person to be so empty- so completely stuffed with nothing that he was going to explode?

He wanted to claw at his face until the skin broke and the blood poured and it dripped away his agony – jewel by glittering jewel.

"Shit!" his hoarse cry broke with a snap as in a blind rage he shoved the table away from him. It only shifted a foot or two but even so Mrs. Hudson's dish along with two bottles clattered to the floor and shattered piercingly. Rubbery noodles decorated the floor like a shag rug.

Searing tearful rivers dripped freely over worn and tired flesh.

"God, please…" he whimpered pitifully into hands that dug into his scalp. His face rubbed coarsely against the tabletop. "Anything, I'll do anything…please…please…"

Objects, flesh…they meant nothing. He'd stop his own heart with a smile if he could just say good-bye.

If he could just see his face one more time…there was nothing he wouldn't give.

That night he fell asleep in Sherlock's bed.

6\. Depression

John kept the blinds drawn.

John kept the door locked.

John kept the phone unplugged.

John dated grief.

John dated pain.

John dated anger.

John was so empty.

John was so full.

John cared for nothing.

John cared so much.

John barely ate.

John barely breathed.

John barely lived.

7\. Acceptance (sort of)

He couldn't win. He couldn't live a single second more in this flat, not when there were memories at every turn.

There was Sherlock on the sofa.

There was Sherlock making tea.

There was Sherlock trying to identify if differences in various corn-starch based grease stains.

But the thought of leaving induced more pain than he thought he could handle.

So there was a clearance sale of memories – everything must go.

In the end, everything fit into seven boxes. Sherlock had always been a packrat, but after all the useless junk and unidentifiable experiments were thrown out it turned out he didn't really have all that many things.

The chemistry things, shoes, sheets and clothes he donated. The case files he had shipped off to Lestrade to do with what he will.

Really the only blessing here was that Sherlock was not a sentimental man. He did not have keep-sakes or scrapbooks or little tangible memories. If John had come across anything like that it would have made the process more painful than it was already…and it was already painful enough.

A Sherlock purge. That meant everything had to go. In fact John found himself in such a cleansing frenzy that he even threw out a few of his own possessions… ones that reminded him a little too much of Sherlock for comfort. His cane (despite having hung onto it for all that time because 'just in case') and a turquoise teacup that Sherlock had always been particularly fond of were both tossed.

The skull was thrown out.

Sherlock's laptop was a more difficult decision. Since it was an essential tool of Sherlock's work, a very expensive model, and probably one of the most personalized things Sherlock owned John debated keeping it. However, he ended up simply wiping the hard drive without ever looking at anything on the computer donated it to good will.

The violin case he could not even bear to open. This he also considered keeping as the thought of parting with it brought a great wave of sadness.

"Like a Band-Aid, Watson," he muttered to himself as he added it to the 'donate' pile. It was in good condition… not meant to be shoved in a closet collecting dust. Besides, someone would get a lot of joy out of playing it, though the thought of what Sherlock would say about an amateur violinist screeching away on his precious instrument did bring a long-missed smile to John's face.

Within a week the bullet holes in the wall were filled and the smiley face scrubbed away (but not without great difficulty). The door to Sherlock's bedroom was shut and avoided at all costs.

And that was that – the flat was Sherlock-proof.

Despite his witch-hunter like eradication John did keep one small thing- which he stuffed in a box that contained other un-mentionables, which was kept in an unused and much ignored desk drawer.

A small blue scarf that, John liked to think, missed Sherlock almost as much as he did.

With some measure of guilt, John does his best to forget about his former flat mate.

Because remembering is too painful.

The days turned into weeks.

John eventually apologized to Lestrade for his rudeness, who accepted it with grace. They and a few other mates occasionally go out for a pint. John has even been known to let out an ever rare chuckle.

Mrs. Hudson stops bringing up dinners though she never stops her constant visits- a fact John takes much comfort in.

The weeks turn into months.

Mycroft had not contacted him after their last encounter but John has no doubt that he's keeping his own tabs on him. He tries his best to not think about it.

The months turn into years.

John does his best to carry on normally.

John does his best not to dwell.

John does his best to not let the pain show.

8\. Work

John manages to get himself a job at a hospital. He loves the fast pace and chaos of the day to day. Without much else to do he works constantly. He doesn't mind, though. He loves the job and it's a wonderful distraction. He is well-known for taking the unwanted shifts of his co-workers.

Whether he knows it or not he is tragically and irreversibly attracted to the thrill of having someone's glowing life completely and helplessly lying in his hands. In tight situations, whether he be administering urgent medicine or reaching for the defibrillator, he loves the rush of adrenaline, the feel of his racing heart.

It doesn't hold to say that he doesn't take his job seriously. John is a good doctor who cares about the health of each and every patient. When he works he sees people in need of his help, not opportunities to fuel his addiction to danger.

But it's the closest he can possibly be to the war… the one he fought with Sherlock.

Time creeps by.

Has it really been three years?

When did he get so old?

9\. Recovery

4 am. John has just gotten off the graveyard shift and all he can think of is sinking into bed and slipping away from reality for a few hours.

He steps into the flat, toes off his shoes, flicks on the light and then nearly falls over. He has to use the wall to catch himself and leans heavily on it – one hand gripping his chest because his heart is beating so fast he thinks he might go into cardiac arrest.

Because Sherlock Holmes is seated quite contently on his couch. And no matter how many times John blinks his eyes…

He's still there.

"Hello, John." His voice is hoarse and achingly familiar yet startlingly strange.

'I'm dreaming,' was his first thought, though dreams that included Sherlock were never this tame.

'I'm hallucinating. I'm overworked. I'm crazy.' The solutions popped up one after another even as they stared at each other: Sherlock a bit worse for wear, John shocked and confused.

Both tired and unsure.

And suddenly, John doesn't care. He doesn't care if he's drugged or dreaming or delusional.

If he's crazy, he was going to enjoy it.

Because in that moment he knew that somewhere between Sherlock falling off the roof and falling into his living room John did a falling of his own. He was in love with this man. And why had it taken his death and resurrection for John to realize this?

But for the moment, explanations could wait.

Words could wait.

The world could wait.

He's over to Sherlock in three steps, and they hug tightly.

No, they embrace.

No, cling to each other as if each is source of the other's oxygen.

It's as if John has been living in complete darkness for three years and just now stepped out into mid-summer, greeting the sun for the first time; he's so overwhelmed. The tears come at once and at first he's embarrassed but then Sherlock's hands grip his face and force it up so he can look at John's countenance and John sees that Sherlock is crying too.

They cry and they cling. John is unsure where Sherlock ends and he begins, or that there were ever even two of them to begin with – just one being that was separated.

He drinks in the smell of Sherlock, the sight and feel of him.

The taste of him.

Body touches body and hands touch hands and lips touch lips.

That night they both fall asleep in Sherlock's bed.


End file.
